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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076055">Two Way Street</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyblueavenger/pseuds/babyblueavenger'>babyblueavenger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mystery Nerds AU [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Gravity Falls</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Bad Parenting, Filbrick Pines Is A Jerk, Filbrick Pines' Bad Parenting, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Married Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Swearing, Vietnam War, Vomiting, World War II, period accurate racism, reference to suicide attempt</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 13:21:22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,739</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26076055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/babyblueavenger/pseuds/babyblueavenger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>You know what they say about communication.</p><p>Or,</p><p>Four times Filbrick Pines' sons reached out to him, and one time he reached out first.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Filbrick Pines &amp; Ford Pines, Filbrick Pines &amp; Sherman "Shermie" Pines, Filbrick Pines &amp; Stan Pines, Filbrick Pines/Caryn Romanoff Pines</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Mystery Nerds AU [6]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/399307</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>79</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Two Way Street</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <i>December 10, 1966</i>
</p><p>It was 5:07 pm, and Filbrick couldn’t stop watching the clock. </p><p>He focused on the second hand ticking by, trying to force his heart into matching its much more reasonable pace. Anything would have been preferable to the fluttering palpitations he was stuck with now. </p><p>The clock didn’t help.</p><p>Shermie still wasn’t home from the recruitment office. </p><p>His stomach clenched like an angry fist squeezing a stone. His head swam for a moment. He felt a cold sweat spring up on his forehead. He wondered if this was what having a heart attack was like. His granddad had died from a heart attack at age eighty. If this was what the old man had to endure, Filbrick wouldn’t wish it on his worst enemy. </p><p>Fortunately, Caryn, Stanley, and Stanford didn’t seem to notice his distress. Caryn flipped idly through an issue of Cosmopolitan. The boys had their history homework spread out in front of them, with Stanford trying to explain to his brother that Stonewall Jackson was, in fact, a real person, and not a professional wrestler, no matter how cool the name sounded. </p><p>They all were oblivious to Filbrick’s rising tension as he sat rigidly behind a newspaper in his armchair. That was the way he preferred it. </p><p>The minute hand moved, and the clock now said 5:08.</p><p>Dammit, where was that boy?</p><p>Shermie’s eighteenth birthday had been on Monday, and the boy had been bouncing like a leapfrog all week, knowing that after school on Friday would be the moment he was finally able to go down to the recruitment office on Kellogg Street and sign up for the draft. </p><p>“Just like you did, Dad!” he excitedly crowed. </p><p>Filbrick could kick himself for not hiding his gear better. His dress uniform, his tags, his helmet, that goddamn purple heart - they’d all been shoved away in the bedroom closet since the day he and Caryn moved into this apartment. If he had his way, they’d never have seen the light of day again. Let the moths eat them. Let them rot to dust, just so they wouldn’t be there anymore. </p><p>But then one day, around last Thanksgiving, Shermie was digging around, looking for his father’s shoe polish, and he managed to move just the right things out of the way to reveal the dusty army jacket. In a matter of moments, he’d dug out everything else, and called his younger brothers in to take a look at it themselves. </p><p>The twins, to their credit, had regarded it almost like they’d stumbled upon some shameful thing that they definitely were not supposed to be looking at. When Filbrick came into his bedroom to see what the hold up was with the shoe polish, and found Shermie delightedly showing off the uniform, Stanford and Stanley squeaked like mice and cowered away from him. </p><p>To them, the uniform meant nothing other than an invasion of their father’s sacred privacy, and that meant punishment. </p><p>But it was easy to tell by looking at them that they didn’t deserve it. As big of knuckleheads as those boys could be, they obviously weren’t willing accomplices in Shermie’s transgressions. Stanford didn’t surprise him. The boy had never really been interested in anything violent or even all that physical. Gym class was the bane of his existence. When a particularly bloody story was being covered on the news, Stanford left the room. It’d been a battle of wills to ever get him to his and Stanley’s boxing lessons. Soldiers and war and the like was completely out of the question, as far as Stanford’s tastes went.</p><p>Stanley, however, had been a bit of a shock. The kid was a ball of energy and flying fists, constantly having to be on the move and doing something. He put up with very little in the way of guff from other kids. He was covered in bandages more often than not, from some boneheaded stunt he’d pulled or a fight he’d entered without ever thinking about how it would turn out for him. He was the only one of the kids who’d ever willingly watch his father’s tragic Westerns with him. </p><p>Which was why it took Filbrick a bit by surprise when, after the fear had faded as the twins realized their father was letting them off with a warning, after Stanford had beat a hasty retreat back out into the hall, Stanley had lingered behind, and given his father the briefest, but saddest look Filbrick had ever seen. </p><p>It reminded him of one night, over eight years ago. One night when he couldn’t sleep, and Stanley...no, Stanley couldn’t possibly remember that. He was barely five at the time, and had fallen asleep not ten minutes later. He probably looked back on that moment and thought it was a dream. </p><p>After Stanley had finally disappeared into the hall, Filbrick was left alone with Shermie, who still held Filbrick’s helmet in his hands. He’d wanted to slap it away from his oldest son, like it was deadly poison. Somewhere deep inside him, Filbrick knew that’s exactly what it was. </p><p>But Shermie hadn’t seen it that way. The boy had stars in his eyes from that point on, his head filled with stories his teachers had fed him about the heroic United States military, gallantly helping the Allies win the war against those damned Japs, putting a boot up old Aldof’s ass. </p><p>Filbrick wanted to warn him. Wanted to grab his son by the shoulders and scream at him that this jacket and helmet and medal didn’t make him a hero. All they left him with was scars he’d never heal from. Nothing good had come from them, and nothing ever would. </p><p>But Shermie was bound and determined. They were fighting a war now, and he had to sign up for the draft when he turned eighteen anyway, so why not continue the family tradition? </p><p>It made Filbrick’s eye throb just to think about it. </p><p>He glanced up at the clock again. 5:10.</p><p>Trudging footsteps plodded up the side stairs, and the kitchen door was flung open. Then it was slammed shut, and Shermie swore under his breath.</p><p>Filbrick felt like a set of barbells had been lifted off his chest. </p><p>“How’d it go, sweetheart?” Caryn called, setting her magazine off to the side. </p><p>Shermie appeared in the archway, tossing his coat in the general direction of the coatrack, looking ready to punch the next thing that looked at him funny. “They wouldn’t take me,” he said sullenly. “‘Cause of my asthma. Said it was a health risk.”</p><p>Filbrick wanted to whoop for joy. </p><p>“Aww, Shermie, I’m sorry,” Caryn said genuinely, rising from the window seat and coming over to him. She gently kissed his cheek and said, “I know how much you had your heart set on it. But some things just aren’t meant to be, sweetie.”</p><p>Shermie didn’t respond, just pouted harder. </p><p>“Come on,” Caryn said, giving the cheek she kissed a gentle pat, “get washed up for supper. You’ll feel better after you have something to eat.”</p><p>Shermie still said nothing, but he shoved his hands in his jeans pockets and started heading towards the bathroom. Filbrick noticed, as he walked by, that the boy wouldn’t look him in the eye. </p><p>“You too, boys,” Caryn said to the twins, who hopped to their feet and chased after Shermie as soon as the words had left her mouth. At twelve, the boys lived for mealtimes. </p><p>Filbrick, still riding on the high of his relief, smiled a bit, and went back to his paper. </p><p>Caryn cleared her throat dramatically and said, “I thought I told all my boys to go wash up.”</p><p>Filbrick peered at her from over the paper, and saw she was exaggeratedly tapping her foot, her arms crossed over her chest. His smile grew a little wider. She was always cute when she pretended to be mad. </p><p>“Yes, ma’am,” he replied, folding the paper and tossing it in his chair. </p><p>She scooted closer to him and whispered in his ear, “And maybe go talk to Shermie. I hate to see him so heartbroken.”</p><p>Filbrick gave her a small nod, and set off down the hall. He’d intended to talk to Shermie anyway, but knowing Caryn was worried about him would make it a little easier. He’d never been very comfortable being emotional with his children, at least not when they were awake to know about it. Using Caryn’s worry as a backdrop would make the whole thing easier. </p><p>As he approached the bathroom, he could hear the boys talking over the spray of the faucet.</p><p>“...go do construction. Dad used to do that,” came Stanford’s voice.</p><p>“Yeah,” chimed in Stanley. “And you could meet way more girls working at a construction site! They walk by them all the time.”</p><p>The twins were trying to cheer him up. Filbrick couldn’t believe he was thinking this, but it was actually pretty sweet. </p><p>“Yeah, I guess,” Shermie said, his tone dark.</p><p>“And you don’t have to worry about how you’re gonna get home for Hanukkah!” Stanford added.</p><p>“Or worry about gross army food!” Stanley said, laughing a bit.</p><p>“Oh! Or about <i>Millie</i> getting lonely without you!” Stanford said, his tone going singsong as he said the name of the young girl Filbrick had seen Shermie going around with for about two months now. </p><p>Shermie grumbled, “Shut up, twerp,” but there was laughter bubbling up.</p><p>“‘Oh, Shermie!’” Stanley said, talking in a high-pitched parody of a girl’s voice. “‘Don’t leave me!’”</p><p>“‘I’m sorry, Millie,’” came Stanford’s replied, voice pitched lower like a rugged action hero. “‘I have to go fight...<i>in the war!</i>’”</p><p>“<i>‘I’ll wait for you, Shermie! I’ll wait for yooooooou!’</i>”</p><p>“Alright, you little gremlins, that does it!” Shermie said, and suddenly the bathroom erupted with laughter and giggling protests as he undoubtedly grabbed up his kid brothers for some affectionate noogies. </p><p>Filbrick supposed that his services weren’t needed. Stanford and Stanley had already done a pretty good job of cheering Shermie up themselves. He kept walking past the bathroom, catching a glance at the tangle of limbs and boyish shouting echoing from within. </p><p>“I guess if I can’t carry on the family tradition, one of you knuckleheads is gonna have to do it for me,” Shermie said. </p><p>Filbrick stopped dead in his tracks. </p><p>He hadn’t even stopped to consider Stanford and Stanley, so caught up in his euphoria about Shermie being rejected. </p><p>They were only twelve, but six years could go by in a flash. </p><p>Stanford was a brilliant kid. The military would try to snatch him up, first chance it got.</p><p>And then there was Stanley. He wasn’t booksmart, but he was strong and fearless and longed for adventure outside of Glass Shard Beach. A skilled recruiter could easily talk him into throwing his life away. </p><p>His heart began pounding again. His eye throbbed behind his sunglasses. As quickly as he could without drawing attention to himself, he rushed into his and Caryn’s bedroom, and ducked into the bathroom. His knees felt like they’d go out from under him any minute. He grabbed the side of the sink in a desperate attempt to keep himself upright. </p><p>He felt like he was suffocating.</p><p>He quickly turned the faucet with a shaking hand, hoping the sound of running water would keep any curious family members out. Just long enough for him to calm down. To build himself back up. To make sure he presented an image that suggested nothing was wrong. </p><p>He couldn’t let his family see...this. This pathetic creature he became when the war got too close for him to ignore. This shell of a man that Shermie had ever so narrowly avoided becoming. This dark harbinger now hanging over the heads of Stanford and Stanley. </p><p>He leaned over the sink, fighting with all his might to slow his breathing. With a shaking hand, he reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, then filled the other with water and splashed it against his face. It was cold and bracing and helped a little. He looked up and caught his face in the mirror. </p><p>Puffy, pink and white scar tissue was looking back at him. It made him feel sick all over again.</p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>He whipped his head to the side, and there stood Stanley, watching him.</p><p>How did it always manage to be Stanley?</p><p>“What?” Filbrick responded sharply. He straightened himself up, hands still clutching the sink desperately. </p><p>Stanley didn’t move, nor did he respond. For a moment, he looked up at his father’s face, and all it made Filbrick think about was that night all those years ago. The concern on Stanley’s face was no longer clouded by the innocence of early childhood. Now, his face bespoke the fact he knew something was really wrong. </p><p>And just like that night, Filbrick had to wonder how much his son really understood. </p><p>“Mom wanted to know what was taking you so long,” Stanley finally said. </p><p>What Stanley didn’t say hung in the air between them, heavy and oppressive as mustard gas.</p><p>“Yeah, yeah,” Filbrick said, ashamed that he sounded winded. His muscles were starting to relax, and all he really wanted to do was go curl up in bed. But appearances had to be maintained. “Tell her to hold her horses. I’ll be there in a minute.”</p><p>“Okay,” Stanley said. He began to walk away. Filbrick watched him go. </p><p>Stanley reached the doorjamb and stopped. Even without seeing his face, Filbrick could see the indecision there.</p><p>Then Stanley turned his head, his mouth open to say something. </p><p>Filbrick cut him off. “I said get going,” he snapped. “Amscray. Vamoose. Get your ass in gear, ya chucklehead!” </p><p>Stanley’s mouth quickly clamped shut, and he bolted down the hall without another word. </p><p>Filbrick turned his head and caught himself in the mirror again. He realized in that moment that he hadn’t had his sunglasses on the entire time Stanley was there. </p><p>He didn’t usually take his sunglasses off unless he was asleep or in the shower. He couldn’t think of a time when Stanley had ever seen him without them. Surely, it had to have been a shock.</p><p>But the kid hadn’t said a word. Just looked at him with that sad, strange understanding. </p><p>
  <i>He saw he knows he knows how weak you are.</i>
</p><p>Filbrick shook his head to silence that nasty thought and slid his glasses back on. </p><p>Stanley didn’t look in his direction for the rest of the night.</p><p>---</p><p>
  <i>June 3, 1973</i>
</p><p>It was 2:57 am, and Filbrick was pulled out of a light sleep by the sound of Ford’s door slamming into the wall. </p><p>Then he heard his son’s footsteps race down the hall, stopping at the bathroom. A beat of silence. Then the retching started. </p><p>He and Caryn both had known something was wrong with Ford since they picked him up at the airport two days ago. He looked pale and sweaty. His clothes were crumpled and his hair was ridiculously bunched up on one side. Caryn fussed over him the entire car ride home, but Ford waved her off, insisting he was fine. He blamed the long flight, and the last few weeks of school. Finals had just been killer, he’d said, and he was exhausted from so many all-nighters. But now that he was on his summer break, he’d definitely feel better soon.</p><p>They both knew he was lying, but any time either of them even so much as mentioned it, he’d insist they stop worrying. He didn’t need to see the doctor because there was nothing wrong with him. He’d be fine with a full eight hours, with no more stress about tests and final projects. </p><p>Filbrick knew that Caryn would have argued more had she not gotten a call from her sister the morning before - something about their mother slipping in the bathtub and needing hip surgery - and been forced to rush off to Newark. </p><p>“Keep an eye on him,” she’d told Filbrick before she left. “I’ll be back in a few days.”</p><p>And so Filbrick was left alone in the house with his sick-but-in-denial son, who spent most of the day laying in his bed, reading from a stack of books he’d borrowed from his college roommate. The only time they’d spent more than half an hour together was when Filbrick had ordered a pizza for dinner. Ford managed to nibble his way through half a slice, tucking himself into a corner of the couch, his arms and limbs folded in close to him, while his father watched the news. Then he tossed his uneaten food in the trash, grabbed a ginger ale from the fridge, and retreated back to his room without a word. </p><p>Filbrick hadn’t even had the heart to scold the boy for wasting food. </p><p>He threw off his covers and reached out to the nightstand, pawing for his sunglasses. He found them and slipped them on, then stood up and headed for his bedroom door. When he opened it, his eyes were immediately drawn to the faint yellow glow of the bathroom light. Ford was still retching, albeit much less forcefully than when he’d started. </p><p>By the time he reached the half-open bathroom door, Ford had stopped altogether, and was now breathing heavily, like he’d just sprinted a mile, occasionally gasping harshly as he pulled air down his abused throat. </p><p>FIlbrick pushed the door open the rest of the way, and his eyes immediately settled on his son’s kneeling figure. The kid was only wearing a gray t-shirt, a faded pair of boxers, and ratty, graying socks. He clung limply to the sides of the toilet bowl, his head leaned against it. His hair was plastered to his forehead by the sheen of sweat on his face. He was shaking hard, like the blood in his veins had been replaced with ice water. He wasn’t wearing his glasses, and his eyes were wide, staring, and slightly glassy. </p><p>For a brief instant, Filbrick was reminded of a wounded animal. </p><p>He didn’t dwell on it, though. He couldn’t just leave the boy there all night. He said nothing, just came to Ford’s side and squatted down next to him. Trying his damnedest not to look at whatever Ford had brought up, Filbrick reached over and flushed it down. The noise seemed to draw Ford out of whatever stupor he’d gone into, and his eyes flicked over to his father. </p><p>The fact it seemed to take him a moment to recognize the man next to him made Filbrick more than a little nervous. </p><p>“You alright, son?” he asked, his voice quiet. He had no idea why. They were the only two people in the apartment. </p><p>“Dad…” Ford began. He loosened his grip on the toilet bowl, and slumped against Filbrick slightly. This close, Filbrick could feel that his son’s body was burning with fever. His shirt was clinging to his sweat-soaked skin, and still he shook. </p><p>Instinctively, Filbrick wrapped an arm around Ford’s shoulder. He took his hand with the other. “It’s okay, Ford,” he said. “We’re gonna put you back to bed and then I’ll call Dr. Pulaski and he’ll get you all fixed up, alright?”</p><p>Ford didn’t seem to have heard him. He simply reached out a hand and clutched his father’s undershirt, gripping it as tightly as his quivering hand would let him. “Dad,” he muttered again. His voice was slightly stronger, as if his senses were coming back to him. Filbrick saw clarity inching back in the brown eyes now focused solely on him. “Dad, something’s wrong...”</p><p>“I know, son,” Filbrick replied. “You’re sick.”</p><p>“<i>No</i>,” Ford said emphatically, giving Filbrick’s undershirt a tug. It briefly reminded him of when Ford was a little boy, before he was old enough to realize that he couldn’t always have everything he wanted, just because he wanted it, and he’d grab up the hem of Caryn’s dress and pull, possibly under the impression that, if he tugged hard enough, eventually, she’d cave in. </p><p>Usually, it didn’t work. This time, Ford had Filbrick’s full attention.</p><p>“Something’s wrong,” Ford repeated. Filbrick noticed his eyes were filling up with tears. “Something happened to Stan. Something bad.” </p><p>A chill ran down the length of Filbrick’s spine. He hadn’t seen or heard from Stan in over a year. He had no idea where he was or what he was doing. He tried not to think about him, because all it did was bring about a flurry of emotions that he couldn’t force himself to deal with. </p><p>And he especially couldn’t deal with it right now. Not when Ford was mumbling feverish nonsense, looking ready to break down in hysterics.</p><p>“He’s hurt,” Ford murmured. “I...I don’t know how, but he is…”</p><p>“Shh, son, it’s okay,” Filbrick said, getting a grip on Ford’s arm, to help him back to his feet. “You’ve got a fever. We need to get you back to bed.”</p><p>Gently, he began pulling Ford up to a standing position. This display of tenderness was alien to him; he couldn’t recall the last time he’d held any of his children close to him like this. But somewhere inside him, his fatherly instinct was still alive and well. </p><p>Ford slumped a bit, seemingly holding himself up by the presence of Filbrick’s shoulder alone. He could feel the boy’s legs trembling like a new foal, and he let him lean against him as heavily as he needed to. Filbrick took a step forward, practically dragging Ford alongside him. This was going to take a while. </p><p>Then, quietly, almost so quietly that he wouldn’t have heard him if the house hadn’t been deathly silent, Ford said, “There’s blood and glass everywhere…”</p><p>In an instant, thoughts of what that could mean sped through Filbrick’s mind. Car accidents, broken windows, bar fights - like a sick slideshow, they flashed in his mind and made his stomach roil with dread. </p><p>Then, a stab of guilt, accompanied by a small voice yelled that he had no right to that dread. </p><p>He stamped it down. </p><p>Ford was just muttering nonsense. The kid was running a fever, for cripe’s sake. He probably didn’t even know what he was saying. He was sure that Stan was fine. As much of a knucklehead as he could be, he was also wily. There were few situations he got into that he couldn’t weasel his way out of. Even if something had happened to Stan (which it obviously hadn’t), how on earth could Ford know about it. He wasn’t a psychic after all. </p><p>Besides, he had nothing to feel guilty about. He’d done what he needed to do. Kids like Stan, they would never stand on their own two feet, not unless you forced them to. </p><p>Stan’s ambition needed igniting, Filbrick had provided the kindling.</p><p>Stan’s discipline needed fortifying, Filbrick had provided the stone blocks.</p><p>Stan’s focus needed sharpening, Filbrick had provided the whetstone.</p><p>Someday, Stan would thank him. </p><p>Beside him, Ford groaned in misery. Filbrick shook his head a bit to clear it, to give his focus back to his ailing son.  </p><p>“Come on, boy,” he said, tightening his grip around Ford’s wrist. </p><p>Eventually, slowly, agonizingly, they made it back to Ford’s bedroom. Filbrick laid him back down, flicking on the bedside lamp, and trying his damnedest not to knock over the ludicrously tall pile of books right next to it. </p><p>The yellowish light from the lamp gave Filbrick a perfect view of the pathetic scene before him. As soon as his head made contact with the pillow, Ford groaned again, this time though this time, there was a mewling whine mixed in. His eyes were still far-away and glassy, his hair still plastered to his forehead with sweat. He wrapped his arms around his middle, like he was trying to soothe away the gnawing pain that’d forced up his dinner. </p><p>It made Filbrick’s chest ache just looking at him. Gingerly, he reached out and swiped his hand over his son’s forehead, pushing back the drenched hair. As he moved his hand away, he reached down and grabbed the thin sheet Ford had kicked to the end of his bed. He pulled it up and tucked it around Ford’s shoulders.</p><p>“Just take it easy, son,” he murmured. “I’m gonna get Dr. Pulaski on the phone, then I’ll get you some water, alright?”</p><p>Ford didn’t respond, just weakly pulled the sheet further up, directly below his chin. </p><p>As Filbrick walked back out into the dark hallway, his thoughts drifted back to Ford’s fever-addled words.</p><p>
  <i>Something happened to Stan. Something bad. </i>
</p><p>
  <i>There’s blood and glass everywhere.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>And it’s because of you.</i>
</p><p>In the summer heat, as he hushed that nasty voice in his head and dialed Dr. Pulaski’s number, Filbrick shivered. </p><p>---</p><p>
  <i>January 9, 1982</i>
</p><p>It was 7:28 am when Filbrick slammed the phone back into its cradle. </p><p>“Now why did you do that?” Caryn demanded, annoyed. “We haven’t heard from Ford in months, and the first call we get, you hang up without even letting me say hi.”</p><p>Filbrick knew he needed to cover, give some excuse so she’d drop it and stop asking. It’d help him to stop thinking.</p><p>About Ford.</p><p>About the pure, venomous rage in his son’s voice.</p><p>About the harsh truths Ford had spit into his father’s face. Truths Filbrick had been trying to ten years to never own up to. </p><p>About Stanley. </p><p>He should have known his wild, uncontrollable son would one day come crashing violently back into his life. That was that boy’s way. </p><p>Caryn was still impatiently tapping her foot and staring him down, waiting for his answer.</p><p>“Sorry,” he finally mumbled. “He had an emergency. Needed to hang up.”</p><p>Her face softened a little, though she still looked dejected. She sighed, and said, “That boy, he works too hard.” She turned towards the refrigerator, opened it, and took a few eggs and the butter out. She set them on the counter, by the stove. All the while, she continued to mutter, more to herself than to Filbrick. “One of these days, I’ll drop dead, and will he even notice. Nooooo. Too busy with his experiments up there in that godforsaken forest. Damn experiments more important than his mother. Never calls, never writes…”</p><p>Her grumbling was swallowed up as she began scrounging about in the cabinets for a frying pan. Filbrick had stopped listening by then anyway. He drummed his fingers anxiously against the kitchen counter. His eye throbbed for the first time in years. </p><p>Part of him wanted to call Ford back. He knew he needed to. Knew they shouldn’t leave things like this, with a smoldering anger between them.</p><p>Part of him wanted to ask after Stan. His mind drifted back to almost ten years ago, when Ford was home from school for the summer, when he’d gotten suddenly and extremely ill, and feverishly told Filbrick that something had happened to his twin. </p><p>
  <i>Something bad.</i>
</p><p>Even thinking about it a decade later made a chill trip back down Filbrick’s spine. Dr. Pulaski had dismissed Ford’s ramblings as a byproduct of the stomach flu he obviously had, recommended bed rest and fluids, and left the two of them to deal with the aftermath. After a week, Ford felt better. He never brought up what he’d said to his father that night. </p><p>Filbrick usually tried his damnedest to not think about that night. And when his mind wouldn’t let him get away with that, he reminded himself of all the things he’d told himself regarding Stan - how he was a screw-up and a failure, how he’d been tossed out to force him to stand on his own two feet, to finally stop riding his brother’s coattails and make something of himself. To be something other than an embarrassment.</p><p>He’d been telling himself that for so long, it flowed from his mouth as freely as water from a broken tap and directly into Ford’s ear. </p><p>But Ford wasn’t having any of it. </p><p>
  <i>Don’t you dare try to act like you did him a favor. Don’t you fucking dare.</i>
</p><p>Something inside his normally rational, logical son had snapped and he wasn’t letting Filbrick hide behind his excuses anymore. Filbrick supposed, deep down, he knew that’s what his reasons for what he’d done always were - excuses. Time made it harder and harder to deny that</p><p>And then, just as quickly as it had erupted, Ford’s anger evaporated, leaving him sounding like he was on the verge of tears. His breathing was heavy and ragged and it made Filbrick ache in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time. Filbrick was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an emotional man, but he found himself overcome with a desire to pull his son close to him, as if he were twenty years younger, and hug him. </p><p>But a nasty voice reminded him that he’d forfeited that right to paternal affection. He’d destroyed everything.</p><p>
  <i>Do you really want to lose your son?</i>
</p><p>And that was when Filbrick ran. Like the coward he was. So desperate to be right that he’d cling to excuses and wrong-headed thinking just so he’d never have to admit he was wrong. </p><p>Ford didn’t have to ask if Filbrick was willing to lose his son. </p><p>He already had, when he’d thrown him away like garbage. </p><p>“Are you listening to me?”</p><p>Caryn’s sharp tone finally pulled him out of himself, and he lifted his head to look up at her. “Sorry,” he muttered. “What did you say?”</p><p>“I was asking if you wanted some eggs,” she said, nonchalantly tossing a generous helping of butter into the pan. It sizzled, and the smell wafted under Filbrick’s nostrils temptingly. But the thought of food made his stomach flip again.</p><p>“No thanks,” he said. “I’m gonna go hop in the shower.” He pushed his chair away from the kitchen counter. He hoped she didn’t see how badly his hands were shaking.</p><p>After he’d showered and shaved and gotten dressed, it had been an hour since the phone call. He tried calling Ford back twice.</p><p>Each time, the phone just kept ringing. No one was there to pick it up.</p><p>Or perhaps Ford had just decided that Filbrick deserved to know what it was like to be tossed aside.</p><p>Filbrick didn’t blame him</p><p>---</p><p>
  <i>January 29, 1982</i>
</p><p>It was 4:24 pm when Filbrick finally went down and got the mail. </p><p>He’d been putting it off all day. Even since he’d sold the pawnshop downstairs to that couple with the kosher deli, he’d been trying not to cut through it as much to get down to the sidewalk, instead using the stairs at the side of the building, by the fire escape. It was fine during the warmer months, but once the temperature started dropping around November, the alley that housed the outside stairs became a frigid wind tunnel. And the heavy snowfall they tended to get around this time of year? Tucked away from the sun as they were, the stairs quickly became an icy nightmare.  </p><p>So of course they’d had the heaviest snowfall of the year just last night. </p><p>He was not at all eager to fight with the freezing slush that had no doubt gathered up on the steps and the sidewalk. Nor was he at all excited to pry the letterbox flap open, since it was most likely frozen shut. Snow in general drove Filbrick indoors and made him lazy. It was why, as soon as they were old enough, he’d taught his sons to shovel snow for him. Anything to keep him from having to fuss with it.</p><p>But finally, Caryn had ordered him out the door. She’d been waiting for a package from a cousin in Delaware for days now, and she’d be damned if she let Filbrick’s aversion to the cold keep her from it another moment. So he tugged on his boots, pulled on his sweater, zipped himself up in his coat, tucked his ears up in his sock cap, and wrapped a scarf around the lower half of his face, ready to face the biting January weather. </p><p>Fortunately, the steps weren’t as slippery as he’d been fearing. The alleyway, though shielded from the sun, also seemed to have acted as a lee against the snowstorm, and the stairs were fairly clear. He only slipped once, and that was due more to that damn trick knee of his than the ice. Caryn kept pestering him to have a doctor look at it, but ever since Pulaski had retired, Filbrick had been wary to get out and find a new one. He didn’t need some young snot charging him through the nose to try and push some fancy pain pills on him, thank you very much. He could live with the occasional malfunction. It wasn’t like he wasn’t used to living with handicaps. </p><p>Thankfully, the letterbox wasn’t too hard to pry open either. It was only glazed with a thin layer of ice, easily shattered by a quick, firm tug. This trip out into the snow was shaping up to be one of the less irritating ones. Filbrick’s mustache twitched up in a half-smile. </p><p>There wasn’t much in the box when he peered in. Only a few envelopes. Nothing even resembling a package. He wouldn’t be surprised if the snow had slowed its progress. Caryn wouldn’t be happy, might even call that cousin of hers to complain, but at least she couldn’t blame him for the sluggish postal service. </p><p>He pulled out the envelopes, flipping through them as he headed back to the stairs. </p><p>Water bill. </p><p>Letter for the storefront two down from them.</p><p>Gas bill.</p><p>A Jews for Jesus pamphlet.</p><p>Flyer from Ford’s old college, with “ALUMNI CHARITY DRIVE TO GET THE BEDBUGS OUT OF THE LIBRARY PLEASE WE MEAN IT THIS TIME WE’RE LITERALLY BEGGING” printed in large, yellow letters above a cartoonish picture of a said creature wearing a cap and gown.</p><p>Filbrick tossed the latter two in the street trash can as he rounded the corner to start heading back up the steps to the apartment. </p><p>Then the address of the final envelope in the pile caught his eye - 618 Gopher Road. Gravity Falls, Oregon.</p><p>A letter from Ford.</p><p>His knee acting up again was the only thing keeping him from taking the steps two at a time, and he had to force himself not to throw the door upon his haste to get back in and read it. </p><p>He hadn’t spoken to Ford since the phone call. Caryn had, for a bit, about two days later. That’s the only reason he knew Stan was alive, and currently staying with Ford. When she’d tried to hand Filbrick the phone to talk to Ford himself, Filbrick had said no. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to speak to either of his sons. </p><p>The roiling guilt in his stomach wouldn’t let him.</p><p>But letters were different. Letters could be thought out, words could be chosen carefully. He couldn’t be put on the spot with a letter. It gave him space to move around and calculate. </p><p>Letters were much easier.</p><p>When he’d been enveloped by the warm air in the apartment and had shucked off his coat, he called out to Caryn, “We got a letter from Ford.”</p><p>Caryn turned to face him with a look of delight on her face. “Oh, open it!” she said.</p><p>He obliged her, but was immediately confused once he’d ripped open the top and looked inside. There was no letter. What there was was a stack of Polaroids. He pulled them out, and found himself looking at the happy, stupid face of a puppy. It was sitting on a couch, an old sock clutched in its teeth. One of its ears flopped forward. It was focused on whoever was holding the camera, its head tilted to one side. </p><p>Filbrick flipped to the next picture. The same dog was now laying on its back, its belly exposed. A familiar six-fingered hand was reaching down and rubbing that exposed belly. The dog looked positively ecstatic.</p><p>“Aww, isn’t that sweet,” Caryn said. “Ford got himself a dog.”</p><p>The next picture did indeed show Ford, sitting cross-legged, while the puppy licked joyously at his face. Ford appeared to be tearing up with laughter, his glasses slightly askew as the dog shoved itself as close to his face as it could get. Filbrick could see both of Ford’s hands wrapped around the dog and petting it, and he wondered who was holding the camera.</p><p>His answer came in the next picture. Even though he hadn’t seen him in ten years, time hadn’t changed Stan much. His hair was longer - too long, for Filbrick’s taste, in one of those ridiculous mullet things all the young folks were wearing these days - his face was a little scruffier, and he was a little thicker around the middle, but Filbrick would recognize his son anywhere. </p><p>Stan hardly looked like he was recovering from pneumonia. The only real signs of illness left were some dark circles under his eyes, and a slight gauntness to his cheeks. And one could only really pinpoint them if you were intently studying his face. Outside of that, Stan looked...happy. He was wearing a red jacket with a fleece hood. It was zipped up nearly all the way, the dog’s head poking out just under his chin. Stan’s fists were planted firmly and proudly on his hips. He had a huge grin, as if he were basking in victory. </p><p>Filbrick’s mustache twitched up again.</p><p>“Oh, they are adorable,” Caryn cooed. “We need to frame some of these. I’m sure I have an empty one around here somewhere. Here, hold these.” She shoved the pictures back into Filbrick’s hands, and went over to the end table by the couch, yanking open the drawer and digging around. </p><p>Filbrick flipped to the next picture, showing Stan again, this time holding the camera turned towards himself. He was holding the wiggling puppy in his free arm, giving it a smooch on the head. The camera caught the puppy in the middle of trying to return the kiss, and its tongue was practically plastered to its tiny black nose. </p><p>The boys had always pestered him for a dog, ever since they were old enough to know what a dog was. But Filbrick had been firm on not getting one. Even when one didn’t factor in the cost of food and vets, the apartment was barely big enough for the five of them. Even after Shermie had left for college, things were cramped, and a smelly, drooling, hyperactive mutt would have made it even more so. Throw in the fact he didn’t think his kids were responsible enough for pet rocks, let alone a living, breathing animal, and the Pines boys had remained miserably dogless the entire time they lived under Filbrick’s roof. </p><p>But now they were on the other side of the country, in a cabin in the remote Oregon wilderness, and there was no father to tell them otherwise. And they’d obviously decided to take advantage of that freedom to finally get the smelly, drooling, hyperactive mutt of their dreams. The envelope of photos, Filbrick realized, were probably a buck to his ancient authority. In short, his boys were gloating. </p><p>There was a time when the obvious defiance would have gotten under his skin. Now, he found himself chuckling. </p><p>A decade had gone by and made him soft. </p><p>There was only one more picture left in the pile - it was Stan and Ford, sitting on the dumpy couch from the first picture. The puppy sat between them. Ford had his hand between the puppy’s ears, obviously giving it an affection stroke. Stan was leaning up against it, headbutting it lovingly. All three of them were sticking their tongues out, though it was clear Ford and Stan’s were more deliberate jeering. The puppy was just happy to be there. The energy radiating from the picture was positively euphoric. </p><p>Then Filbrick noticed the writing, under his thumb. He recognized Ford’s neat cursive, and moved his thumb to read the one-line message - <i>We named her Ripley.</i> </p><p>Filbrick’s mustache twitched up the rest of the way, into a genuine smile. </p><p>He needed to call the boys. It was obvious they needed to talk. A real, serious talk.</p><p>He thought back to his conversation with Ford a few weeks ago, or, more appropriately, his scolding. His son had hurled some pretty uncomfortable accusations at him, and maybe Filbrick had deserved some of them. Throwing Stan out had indeed been stupid. He’d been just a kid, and Ford was right - no one’s future had been ruined. Nothing was lost to Ford. Like he always did, he took his licks, brushed himself off, and came up with another plan to reach the stars. Filbirck never told it to Ford’s face (no reason to give the boy a big head), but he’d always admired that about his son.</p><p>Yes, his kneejerk decision to throw out Stanley had been stupid, and Filbrick regretted it.</p><p>But it obviously couldn’t have been all bad. Looking at these photos, it was clear Stan’s time away from home had shaped him into a decent man, at long last. He looked happy, he was getting healthy, and he was standing on his own two feet, just like Filbrick had always hoped he would. And he would never have learned to do that on his own if Filbrick hadn’t finally decided to toughen up and push him out of the nest. Maybe he could have done it a little more delicately, but the results were clear - Stanley had finally grown up.</p><p>Maybe it was time to forgive and forget.</p><p>“Oh, there they are!” Caryn’s voice dragged Filbrick out of his moment of fatherly pride, and he turned to face her. She had abandoned looking in the end table for an empty picture frame, and she had fluttered away to the kitchen to continue her search there. He followed her eyes, and realized that she was looking on top of the fridge. Sure enough, there was a stack of picture frames up there, just slightly out of her reach. </p><p>“What the heck are they doing up there?” Filbrick asked, still smiling a bit as he started making his way towards her. He had at least half a foot on her when she was out of her heels. He knew when his services were required.</p><p>“Oh, who even remembers,” Caryn said, waving off his question. “Now, which one do you think we should frame? I don’t think we have enough for all of them, so the rest will just have to go in an album. I think there’s some space left in the one Roz gave me for my birthday, but I can’t remember if we filled it up with Shermie and Millie’s ten-year anniversary pictures or not. I’ll have to check...</p><p>She wandered away as Filbrick reached the fridge, over to the bookcase by the TV, intent on finding the album in question. Filbrick found himself chuckling again. Her mind went at a mile a minute, but he loved every scatterbrained bit of her.</p><p>He reached up to grab the frames, stretching ever so slightly onto his tip-toes. His fingers brushed the edge of one, but he couldn’t get a grip. He stretched a little further…</p><p>And suddenly there was nothing supporting him. </p><p>Before he could even think about what had happened, he swayed, and with all his weight currently elevated to reach the frames, there was nothing to keep him from falling. He tried to grab something, to keep him from hitting the linoleum. There was nothing to grab.</p><p>He could only bark out a distressed yelp before he hit the floor, hard. Pain that started at his knee shot through him like a bolt of lightning. A gasp was wrenched from his mouth, despite his best efforts.</p><p>He heard Caryn shriek a little, and rush back over from the bookcase. She was chittering like a frightened bird. “What’s wrong? What happened? Are you hurt? Will you say something?!”</p><p>Filbrick let out a pained hiss, and through gritted teeth, said, “I think it’s that damn knee. Finally gave out.”</p><p>A flash of anger darkened Caryn’s face. She gave his arm a swift smack and said, “You big lummox, I told you to get that checked out! But do you ever listen to me? No, of course not, I’m only your wife, what do I know?”</p><p>“Care…” he ground out in response. He sounded pitiful, but he was only slightly embarrassed. He was fairly certain his knee had done more than just give out. They weren’t supposed to hurt this much when they just gave out. </p><p>At least the piteous sound made the anger disappear from her face, and she said, “Alright, I’ll get you some ice, and then I’m calling an ambulance.”</p><p>Filbrick opened his mouth to protest - no way was he paying for an ambulance when they had a perfectly good car parked right outside - but Caryn cut him off. “If you think I’m carrying you down those rickety old stairs, you’ve got another thing coming, mister. If you’d just listened to me about going to the doctor the first hundred times I told you, you wouldn’t be in this mess, so I don’t wanna hear any lip now, got it?”</p><p>Filbrick was in too much pain to argue, so he just nodded curtly and let her move towards the kitchen phone, practically tearing it off the wall as she dialed the hospital. </p><p>With a pained grunt, Filbrick propped himself up on his elbow, ignoring the shot of pain that ripped through his leg. He could at least try to sit up like a man. </p><p>As he did so, his eye caught the photos. He’d lost his grip on them on the way down, and they were now scattered all over the kitchen floor. The one of the boys on the couch, sticking out their tongues had landed closest to him. </p><p>He could almost hear them laughing at him.</p><p>---</p><p>
  <i>February 14, 1982</i>
</p><p>It was 6 pm, and Filbrick was restless, had been all day. </p><p>He was alone in the apartment, Caryn having rushed out, realizing that she’d forgotten milk for her mashed potatoes. They couldn’t have brisket without mashed potatoes, and Filbrick and Caryn Pines didn’t have Valentine’s Day without brisket. It was as much a tradition for them as the lilies sitting on the dining room table in the only piece of crystal Caryn owned. She’d never cared for roses, so for the last thirty-three years, Filbrick had been going to Finelli’s Florist and buying her the fragrant, obnoxiously-pink lilies she preferred. </p><p>And after Caryn had oohed and ahhed over them, as she did every year (with the traditional smooch right under Filbrick’s graying mustache), she realized her mistake and dashed out, telling him to not worry about the meat, it wouldn’t burn before she got back. He just needed to relax and be comfortable. With a wink, she’d added that he’d need his energy. He hadn’t been able to help patting her backside as she hurried out the door. Her girlish giggle was adorable. </p><p>But now that he was alone, there was nothing to keep him from his thoughts. </p><p>His gaze found its way back to the framed photo, hung on the wall by the side door - the photo of Ford and Stan lavishing attention on their dog, both blowing childish raspberries at the camera. He’d wanted to call the boys not long after the picture had shown up in the mail. But his knee had other plans.</p><p>As if on cue, his brace began itching again. Filbrick grunted in frustration as he tried, in vain, to wiggle a finger down into it and scratch. It didn’t work. His damn fingers were getting too fat. He let out a defeated sigh.</p><p>Damn punk doctor. After Caryn insisted he go to the hospital after his fall, he’d been hooked up with a new doctor, a scrawny little blond bastard, couldn’t have been older than thirty, named O’Connell. He’d informed Filbrick that his knee hadn’t just given out, but he’d completely torn some fancy ligament in it, and would most likely require surgery. He’d even had the gall to bring up that, usually, he could just send his patients home with a brace and some painkillers, but that the injury was too extensive for that, probably from Filbrick waiting so long to get it checked out. Never before had Filbrick wanted to reach out and smack someone so bad. It stung even worse when Caryn agreed with him.</p><p>And so he’d spent the night in the hospital, and the next morning had been wheeled off to surgery. Two hours later he was back in his hospital room, and three hours after that, he was awake from the anesthesia and ready to be sent home. O’Connell had handed him a prescription for a painkiller Filbrick couldn’t remember the name of and told him he’d see him next time. Filbrick tossed the prescription on his bedside table and hadn’t looked at it since. Next time, his good eye.</p><p>Through all that, the phone call had just kind of gotten away from him. The last three weeks had mostly been filled with laying around like a lump and recuperating, at Caryn’s insistence. It was easier than wobbling around on his crutches, so he did it without much in the way of argument. She barely left his side much, and Filbrick knew it was because she felt guilty. After all, she reasoned, she was the one who’d asked him to reach to the top of the fridge and get a silly picture frame. He didn’t want her to feel guilty, but the extra attention was nice. And he’d been particularly excited for this evening, when O’Connell told him he was finally okay to perform more...strenuous activities again. Caryn got pretty excited when she heard that too. </p><p>But now, he couldn’t concentrate on his excitement or the pink lilies in their vase or the smell of the brisket wafting under his nose. He just kept gazing at that picture. </p><p>It was definitely time to forgive and forget.</p><p>Before he had a chance to talk himself out of it, he hoisted himself off the couch and walked slowly to the kitchen. Thankfully, his knee didn’t make things too painful. It was mostly just stiff from lack of use. He only had to catch his breath for a moment after he managed to hobble over to the phone.</p><p>Ford’s number was written on a pad of paper hanging from a hook by the wall, along with the plumber, the TV repair guy, and O’Connell, written directly beneath where Dr. Pulaski’s name and old office number had been scratched out. </p><p>Filbrick punched it in, and it began to ring. </p><p>A small wave of apprehension, memories from the last time he’d tried this traipsing through his mind. The last time, no one had picked up.</p><p>The wave was instantly tamped down when the phone was picked up in the middle of the second ring. </p><p>“Gravity Falls morgue, you snuff ‘em, we stuff ‘em,” came the cheery voice on the other end. Filbrick heard faint laughter somewhere in the background.</p><p>“Uh...Stanford?” Filbrick said dumbly. He knew this wasn’t Stanford, but he honestly had no clue what else to say. It suddenly struck him that he had no idea what he planned to say.</p><p>A beat of silence passed, and for a moment Filbrick worried the call had dropped.</p><p>And then a single word crackled over the connection - “Dad?”</p><p>Stanley.</p><p>Filbrick’s stomach dropped to his shoes. A part of him didn’t know why he was so stunned. Stan lived with Ford now, why shouldn’t he answer the phone occasionally? </p><p>Why should Filbrick be so surprised that his son’s gravely voice somehow sounded even more so, ten years later? </p><p>Why should Filbrick feel an overwhelming sense of shame that that one sentence, that one word, was so loaded with emotion - surprise, sadness, and fear, most of all - that it struck him at his very core?</p><p>He’d already come to the realization that Stan’s exodus had been for the best. He’d already told himself as much.</p><p>And now it had all gone flying out the window, like a mote of dust on the breeze. </p><p>“Uh, hey, son,” he fumbled out. “It’s...it’s good to finally hear from you.”</p><p>“Yeah,” Stan replied. He sounded as if he were conducting a business call. “You too.”</p><p>“So…how have things been?”</p><p>“Great. Little busy.” The ice in Stan’s tone seemed to bring down the temperature around Filbrick several degrees. This was almost a totally different man than the one smiling goofily in the pictures, a puppy’s head poking out from his jacket. </p><p>Filbrick gulped a little and said, “Look, son, I think you and I need to have a talk -”</p><p>“I don’t,” Stan interjected flatly.</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“I said I don’t think we do. There’s nothing for us to talk about.”</p><p>“Oh, I think there is, son.”</p><p>“Yeah? Like what?” Stan said, venom creeping into his voice. Filbrick was eerily reminded of that phone call from Ford those few months ago. “Better be interesting, since you’ve had a fucking lifetime to think it up.”</p><p>“Watch your mouth, boy,” Filbrick said on instinct. He’d spent so much of his life getting on Stan’s case not to swear, it was basically second nature. </p><p>“Or what?” Stan shot back. “I won’t be welcome in your house anymore? Hate to tell you, Dad, but it didn’t take the first time.”</p><p>Filbrick mustache twitched in irritation. “Now listen, Stanley,” he said, fighting to keep his tone even. “I’m trying to talk to you like an adult, but if you’re gonna act like an ignoramus, I’m not gonna waste my time.”</p><p>“Then I don’t know why you’re still here, ‘cause I already said I’m not interested in talking to you.”</p><p>“Goddammit, Stanley, can you just listen, for once in your life?”</p><p>“Not any better than you can.”</p><p>Filbrick huffed in anger, and spat, “Fine. I was trying to tell you that I forgave you, but if you don’t want it, that’s fine by me. Obviously, you’re just as immature as when you left home.”</p><p>Stan started laughing. It took Filbrick aback, not just because he hadn’t been expecting it, but because it was completely humorless. Almost cruel.</p><p>After a few more moments of laughing, Stan breathlessly said, “Oh man, you actually think <i>you</i> need to forgive <i>me</i>. You really are a stupid old man.”</p><p>Filbrick couldn’t do more than make an offended noise before Stan continued. “If anyone should be begging forgiveness, it’s you. You literally threw a teenage boy out on the street with nothing but a duffle bag of clothes. Because you thought I was riding Ford’s coattails? After you said that him getting into that college would have made <i>you</i> rich? And <i>you</i> forgive <i>me</i>?”</p><p>Stan barked out another mirthless laugh. “And let me guess - you managed to live with yourself by saying it was for my own good, right? That it made me a better man?”</p><p>Filbrick didn’t refute it. He couldn’t. So he stayed silent.</p><p>“I could have always been a better man, Dad,” Stan continued. “I could have been so much better if you’d just given me a chance. No one else was going to. No one else believed in me. Hell, I didn’t even believe in me. I was always ready to give up, because I figured, why the hell should I care when no one else does?” </p><p>A small, sad sigh filled the silence. When Stan spoke again, the venom had all but vanished. “But you’re my dad. That was supposed to be your job. You’re the one person who was always supposed to believe in me. And I couldn’t even rely on you to do that, in the end.”</p><p>“Son, I…” Filbrick began. He didn’t know how to continue. </p><p>Stan sighed again. Filbrick could practically hear the disappointment there. “I’m never going to be the son you want. I’m not practical like Shermie or smart like Ford. I can’t be a man like them. The only man I can be is the one I am now. It’s not perfect, and it sure as shit doesn’t meet your standards. But it’s a man I can respect. It’s a man my friends like. It’s a man who has his brother in his life. And it’s a man who knows that you can’t fix something that doesn’t work anymore.”</p><p>Filbrick couldn’t bring himself to say anything, so the silence once again stretched out between them, long and suffocating.</p><p>How had he managed to screw this up so badly? How could he be so blind?</p><p>“Listen, Dad, I’ve gotta go,” Stan said finally. “I’ve got...places I need to be. I’ll tell Ford you called. He’ll call you back when he gets home in a few days.” </p><p>Before Filbrick could even ask where Ford was that it’d take him a few days to get home, Stan muttered a quick goodbye and the line went dead. </p><p>The dial tone droned in Filbrick’s ear. His thoughts were such a wild mess that he barely heard it. </p><p>He’d failed. Oh, how monumentally he’d failed. </p><p>He’d put the phone back in its cradle by the time Caryn got back. It’d given him time to throw up his typically unimpressed demeanor. He ate the brisket and mashed potatoes and carrots she cooked, paid her the usual compliments on how delicious they were. He let her kiss him, long and hard like when they were newlyweds. He took her to the bedroom and undid her dress and they made love and he let her snuggle up to his chest and sigh contentedly against him, let her whisper that she loved him and kiss his jawline. He mumbled that he loved her too and stroked his hand lazily around the small of her back. </p><p>He held himself together until he heard her snoring against him. In their darkened room, Filbrick let himself give into despair.</p><p>His sons hated him.</p><p>They had every right to.</p><p>He’d ruined everything.</p><p>He’d been a fool.</p><p>He’d lost them both.</p><p>And he deserved it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Welcome back to the MNAU, guys! I started this way back at the end of last year, and here it is, finally finished! Hope y'all wanted some nice Filbrick-roasting with a side of Stan-finally-standing-up-for-himself while you're stuck in quarantine. I know it keeps me going in these unprecedented times. </p><p>Now it's time for me to disappear again for months and leave you hanging, okay byyyyyyyyye.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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